At The Melon Stand

I was a riding in my car one day
Shopping for some melons
When from my Maruti I glimpsed
A fateful glimpse of Helen.
Helen was a friend of mine
In her jalopy flying
From her anxious look I soon surmised
She too was melon buying.
But then I found, to my dismay
The cause of her worried pose
It was not because of the melon stand
But due to something in her nose.
So Helen reached in eagerly
And found the sinful foe
For some young ladies of high society
Prefer to reach in, rather than blow.
While I must admit, I flinched a bit
And the incident left me vexed.
But nothing I’ve known could ready me
For what I witnessed next.
Graceful Helen, maiden made
Of niceness, spices and sugar
Proceeded to, without remorse,
Feast upon her booger.

Messianic Doorknobs

There are silences in my life that need to be shouted at. For a time, there’ll be no space in my room for pompous verse, only vitriol and prose. No space for graceful complacence, but a To Lease sign for jagged bitterness. I like to think I avoid talking about my mundane everydayness here, but sometimes, the plainer the autobiographical tirade, the greater the catharsis. Sometimes, it’s nice to put words together that in the end have no meaning whatsoever. It reminds me of how much bullshit we are all full of. The fumigating bloke assuaged the licensing fee of messianic doorknobs, scratching a storm in the gaping crevice between shoe polish. Sometimes, even a bleak outlook seems wholly pointless. At that point, grammar

Syntax

Meaning

All

Fall

Over

The lips

Of a gaping

Precipice.

Sometimes I Feel Like Screaming...

A Night of Pondy Dreaming

An angry dusk settles into hesitant calm, placated by the matronly whisper of the night wind. We watch in silence as the streaks of fiery red disperse in the wake of gathering darkness. Our steady breathing matches the pulse of the waves, one with the intangible subterranean engine that sets the pace for the heave of our chests, the relentless salt water crash, and the winking innuendo of the stars above us. No theatre could be a more apt setting for the drama of tiny lights that unfolds before us.

We had often told each other that some day we would spend a night in wordless togetherness, watching the sea together. There was never much hope in that promise, but tonight, by chance, our playful covenant has been fulfilled. There is no romance here tonight, or any night, simply the unfettered oneness that old friends bring. And she is perhaps my oldest friend.

In the background we hear the primal din of our companions. They immerse themselves deeper in youthful decadence as the cloak of the night falls heavier upon us all. But we are oblivious to the invisible haze of smoky intoxication. Our liquor is the sea.

Soon, our silence has extended long into the night. The waves have turned into distant aural shells, like common words left bereft of their meaning from constant childish repetition. So we speak. We speak of God, and friends, and love, and music, and dissecting frogs. They are well worn topics, beaten into crude philosophy from the shapeless iron of our banter. But no one can see knowing smiles in the dark. So we talk and smile to ourselves, while the insistent waves try to get a word in. Eventually we tire of speaking, and as we drift back into silence, the waves continue their united monologue. We listen again.

Behind us, our friends are now silent, lulled into fitful dreams by the same waves that hold us hostage. They will wake with a crushing throb in their heads, regretting the night’s revelry and the bilious aftertaste of their adventures. But for us, there will be no waking, as we run the marathon of sleepless defiance hand in hand. We refuse to let any night wind’s lullaby shut our heavy lids, and as our eastward-facing amphitheater begins to brighten, we know that our sojourn is at an end. We rise with the sun, dust off our clothes, and turn our backs on the vastness of our watery, night-long companion. The play is over, the blazing curtain of morning closes the stage to view, and the promise is now complete.

You

Hey you. Yes you. I’m talking to you. Don’t turn around and make furtive glances, acting as if I may be addressing someone else. There are very few visitors to this place who make visitations without leaving a visiting card. And besides, I heard your tip toe on the carpet trying to read in stealth (you have nice toes, by the way; I’ve told you that before). I have a couple of things to say. One, I miss you. You’ve rarely been away when the shitake hit the Kawasaki, but as I’m beginning to learn, oceans are hard to traverse, good times or bad, despite all good intentions. Oh, and that’s another thing. I’ve forgotten to say thank you. It’s been many years since you threatened me with glitter glue, and searched for gold dust (potentially toxic, I’m sure) with me in petty streams. And I’m still waiting on that novel you said you were writing. If nothing else, at least start a blog! It will give us both an equal chance to stare at each other’s self indulgence with well-meant voyeurism. But I digress. I was thanking you when I started rambling (characteristic, don’t you think?). Yes, thanks. However far or near we’ve been, or however long the silences, talking to you has a singular comfort. The good thing about bad times is that they serve, if nothing else, to remind me how much of my thanks I owe you. Anyway… till next time, which won’t be too far away. Before you know it I’ll be knocking at your gate at seven a.m. for another morning walk.

Metronotomy

Our days were delirium.
Treading sweet nectar from idle hours of
Quiet togetherendlessness,
Weaving tunes with our tied-tongues
To the signatures of dusty road wind.
Keeping time, Two thousand
Eight hundred
And 12 to the minute.
But now
Seconds of silence stagger into the scene.

'Tis the Season to be Jolly

There’s a joyous din in the forest eaves
And a spring in the fox’s trot.
The cottontail rabbit lies in repose
With the mink at their favourite spot.
The quails have abandoned their shrubbery fort
To frolic in playful ease,
And the badger returns from his longer winter snooze
To pick off accumulated fleas.
Why such a mood of festive glee?
You ask, does it stand to reason?
Shouldn’t they all be slinking in fear
At the start of hunting season?
But no my dear friends, the animals are safe
Free to have their fun.
The ones in danger are the hunters themselves,
Because Cheney’s got a gun.

A Countercultural Dictionary of Nothing

My tries silenced by misanthropic silences;
Beeswax halting creative flow
Scream from within: numbers on a line, negative, positive, relative, flow
I see, you see, but feel flows, my friend.
If you have it, flaunt it, my friend of many years
For years will divulge the secrets of our short time
And people will gather to hear late reminiscences
Of the dogs of war, and men of hate
We perambulate, we procrastinate
And we see what we refuse to see.

For the Jugular Bean, a friend and inspiration through ages.

Roman Ball Games, Anyone?

Some champion the cause of Pairity
While others esteem the virtues of Singularity
The Pairity camp is singular in that they deride without charity
The life of the individual bent on solitairity.
The Singulars parry calmly by drawing attention to the deep disparity
Between the proportion of the dinner bill laid on the table by the Man
And his Manatee.
But Pairs in their rebuttal will rebut,
Will hmm, haw, tsk-tsk, and tut-tut,
And point out that the broken-hearted heart owner
Is better than the individual possessing the heart of a loner.
But can I make a proposal, with due modesty?
I humbly suggest we mingle in groups of three.
Let us reject this morbid fascination with Singles, and Doubles;
For trios, trinities, triumvirates, triplicates, and troikas will save us much trouble.
To those enamoured of Ones and Twos,
Haven’t you heard? Three is company, too.

The Ocean Blues

I felt the ocean today
Rising in tumult around us,
Tearing at sinews
Steady relentless beating acid
Eating at shores and continents,
Like hunger at stomachs lined with emptiness.
Making islands of men
And pebbles of hard hearts.
I see your ruins at a distance.
I hunger. I hunger.
I tasted the ocean today
Bitter brine from eager cheek flow
Parting reluctant lips.
Speak in tongues
Of Sadness and Longing.
Tongues of Sadness
And Longing.

Longing

Longing is the price we pay for a central nervous system.

More Split!

I've reviewed 'Whose Line is it Anyway', a song by Bangalore's talented Shoestring for the latest update of Split Magazine, as well as the classic Rock Machine album, The Second Coming. Enjoy.

Tagged

Here’s my response to Fingers’ tagging about my ‘ideal’ better half. Firstly, she’d have to be a she. Then…

1. I’d like someone who’s artistically inclined. Any art: music, dance, fine art, film, theatre. A sense of artistic aesthetics would ensure one thing: she can’t be too boring. If she can teach me about an art I’m unfamiliar with, awesome!
2. If she’s relatively easy going, it’d be nice. That would balance me out without annoying me...*sigh* how perfect it all sounds.
3. Someone who’s ready for compromise, because I am.
4. Nice feet are absolutely essential.
5. Someone who can sense and match my level of interest and commitment. A girl on either extreme is just trouble.
6. I like whisky. It’d be nice if she does too. But I won’t fuss.
7. A girl who has a quirky sense of dress who can correct my own would also be nice.
8. I’ll leave this blank, because inevitably the girl will have AT LEAST one thing unexpected that you didn’t know you’d grow to love…

Splitting Hairs

I have been writing for an online music magazine for the past couple of months, and the editor finally managed to put it up after many unexpected delays. It's called Split and the inaugural January issue has 2 of my articles. One is a review of Thermal and a Quarter's Plan B, and the second is a book review of The Rock Snob's Dictionary. Check it out and look forward to more content in the future.

...and Fingers, your tagging will be acted upon soon...i promise..

Season's Greetings

Globules of phlegm cascade through my unwilling trachea as choking air hacks and wheezes its way across my throat. Happy New Year.

Winter’s Woes

As winter sets in with a grey sneeze and splutter
And frostiness looms like a squall,
My toes threaten mutiny
And I begin to scrootini
Why we have this business of winter at all.

There’s an awful fuss about the beauteous snow
But I say with fervour, “Bollocks!”
For snow turns to slush,
And there’s nothing plush
About bruising the ground with your buttocks

Cars will stall and birds will fly south
And butter will refuse to soften
O! woe to margarine
But what vents my spleen
Is having to visit the loo so often.

The Silence of the Bands

I happened to Google my name today (now, don’t point fingers lads and ladies…you know you all do that from time to time!) and found an interesting link. A review of Indus Creed’s self-titled (ahem, eponymous...) album that I wrote for www.themusicmagazine.com a couple of years ago has been cited by a lady named Rebecca Romanow in her jargon-heavy paper on rock music and the silenced Subaltern. I found myself rather badly misrepresented, but tell me what you think. (I think The Music Magazine links aren’t completely working though)

My Omniscient Beetle

Since I have little knowlede about how to make this picture any bigger, you'll have to go to to the trouble of clicking it to see its dubious contents...

FLY LOW WHEN YOU’RE NOT APT TO SOARING: The Rise and Fall of Icarus

(I wrote this 37- verse retelling of the tale of Icarus and Daedelus when I was in the 12^th for a poetry competition. I didn’t submit it at the time because I deemed it horribly self-indulgent. Since self-indulgence is the watchword of the blogosphere. Here it is…)

Minos the great king of Crete
Managed a marvelous feat
No one knows how
He mixed a man with a cow
And got a treacherous beast with bull’s feet.

Minos, he built him a cage
But in a fit of ox-like rage
The man-thing broke out
With a bovine shout.
The mutant had come of age.

Minos didn’t know what to do
The beast beat his guards black and blue
First he would beat them
Then he would eat them
He would hang up their uniforms too.

Now Minos was in a quandary
About the Mino’s dirty laundry
Should he tie up the beast
Or let him continue his feast
And let him devour all and sundry?

The sovereign was awfully vexed
What should the man do next?
He decided to get
A home for his pet
And put out ads for the best architects

Among the men who applied
The king, Daedelus espied
He passed every test
Yes, he was the best
His genius could not be denied

Icarus was Daedelus’ son
A stupid sonuvagun
Being so smart
One should have the art
To procreate a brighter one

But Daedelus was stuck with the fool
Too dull to pass out of school
He had wool in his head
His grey cells were dead
But he thought himself awfully cool

He had the degenerate genes of his mater
Daedelus would congratulate her
On bearing a child
So willful and wild
Who got all jokes five minutes later

But Daedelus being his dad
Really loved the stupid lad
He decided to take him
Rather than forsake him
And leave him there lonely and sad

So they set out at once for the isle
They traveled many a mile
Daedelus wondered
He thought, and he pondered
How to hold the beast, coarse and vile

While he sat in Knossos and thought
An answer to the enigma he sought
When the answer he found
In leaps and in bounds
He ran to Minos’ court

“Build him a maze dear king!
A maze is just the thing
It’ll hold Mino in
And keep him from sin
A maze is just the thing!”

Minos was extremely delighted
As from his throne he alighted,
“We’ll start work today
For with the pass of each day
My soldiers resign, affrighted”

So the building of the maze began
The greatest in all the land
From the next day’s dawning
Early in the morning
They built it according to plan

If you happen to enter the maze
You’ll wander around for days
You’ll die of starvation
Or harsh mastication
By the Minotaur ravenous and crazed

But the labyrinth has one way out
If you’re stuck, don’t scream, don’t shout
Turn right at every bend
Turn right till the end
You’ll move from within to without

Ariadne, the princess of Crete
Was beautiful, slim and petite
She wasn’t as bad
As the king, her dad
She was cultured, refined and neat

So Daedelus finally decided
In the princess of Crete he confided
Daedelus gave her
The clue that would save her
If she ever got stuck inside it

This caused the king much pain
Minos was crazed and insane
“One must tell the king
Before planning such things!”
And he clamped dad and son in chains

Daedelus had hurt his pride
It hurt him deep inside
“The ruling monarch
The Royal Patriarch,
In him must you confide!”

So Minos thought up a plan
He was a fiendishly devious man
“I’ll send the damn Greek
To the maze for a week.
Let him escape if he can.”

Opening ceremonies are grand
And, as Minos for this one had planned,
Blindfolded and dazed
He threw them in the maze
With their feet tied to their hands

Daedelus was cool and collected
He relaxed, breathed out, and reflected
With a sharp bit of stone
Cut rope, flesh and bone
(But in legends such things are expected)

He had freed them both of their fetters
Their clothes were torn and in tatters
But you wouldn’t mind
If monsters unkind
Were the urgent, pressing matters

About on thing, Minos had been right
Daedelus was awfully bright
He dealt without haste
With the problems he faced
Things would turn out alright

To keep the Minotaur quiet
He was put on a special diet
Of thousands of birds
And cattle in herds
And Greece was asked to supply it

So father and son together
Collected some bones and some feathers
There were masses left over
From chickens and plovers
And plenty of hide to gather

With some wax, among other things
Like glue, some blood, and some string
With feathers and bone
And adhesives alone
They made two pairs of wings

Whatever Orville and Wilbur may say
It was actually on that very day
Man’s first flight
Was before the Wrights
Well, that’s what the Greek legends say

Icarus was overjoyed
With his newly invented toys
He soared and he swooped
He looped the loop
What a reckless, irresponsible boy!

Daedelus, with a weary sigh
Said, “Son, don’t fly too high,
The heat of the day
Will melt wax away
And you will fall down and die.”

But the warning Icarus ignored
As higher and higher he soared
But in 9.8 seconds
As gravity beckons
The fool wasn’t flying no more

He plummeted to the sea
A terrible death died he
Waving and thrashing
Cursing and splashing
He sunk like a biscuit in tea

Morals can make legends boring
But in fact, they’re not worth ignoring
As all others do
This has one too
‘Fly low when you’re not apt to soaring.’

***

Whew!

Take Up Thy Pukulele and Walk

I once thought sobriety, as way of life,
Is a matter deserving rebuke.
But it’s hard to decry
Such modi vivendi
When you’re cleaning up someone’s puke.